Here in München
by museofmirth
Summary: [HeiEd] It was the coldest winter München had experienced in a long time. Ed and Alfons were living in a city under siege, and they—of all people—knew it. End of series and movie spoilers! Al Heiderich x Edward Elric. Oneshot! R&R, PLEASE!


**A/N**: This is my second FMA fanfic, but the first one with this pairing and of this nature. This is an Alfons Heiderich x Edward Elric fic, so if yaoi/shonen-ai offends you, LEAVE NOW! (It's rated R—or "mature—for a reason! Also, if you have not seen the movie or do not know about the movie and don't WANT to know things (there aren't any major spoilers), LEAVE NOW! Please, people, NO FLAMES! I've asked for no flames on some other fics before, and still, people don't listen…anyway, I used the German name "München" instead of "Munich" for the city name, so don't get confused! Please go easy on me…

Please read and review!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own FMA, not at all, not ever…

**Here in München**

It was the coldest winter München had experienced in a long time. The bitter cold had crept over the city early in the fall and refused to let go. Ed and Alfons were living in a city under siege, and they—of all people—knew it. The money from Hohenheim had become a rarity, the older blond hearing from his father less and less as the months passed. It had not worried them then, not when the air was still warm with lingering summer and the first fruits of the harvest filled the grocers' stands. Their collective aspirations—calling it "hope" or "faith" would be far too sacrosanct—were as immutable as the tilt of the earth on its axis as they gazed out at the blazing autumnal sunset.

But now they knew all too well how extinguishable that feeling of the immortality of youth was. Edward felt the cold permeate his bones and joints. He could especially feel the stiffness in his right shoulder and left leg—or what was left of it. Alfons knew, staring into the cracked mirror over the grimy porcelain sink, that he was growing paler by the week. Shivering fits would send him so easily into coughing fits, and he would quickly wash the thick, red stains from hands and sink with ice cold water. It was then that he—and Ed—worked hardest, knowing his days were numbered. They read and sketched and formulated and dreamed by the thin sunlight that shone half-heartedly through the largest window in the small flat. Notes and books and dirty dishes were placed so haphazardly about them that there must have been some rudimentary, subconscious pattern. The fire cracked near them—a harbinger of the much-longed-for spring—each pop of wood like the chimes on a clock. They would huddle close then, both dressed in their warmest coats and scarves and whatever else they could find to drape around themselves. But Alfons found it too cumbersome to try to write wearing mittens, and he had no gloves like Ed's. By midday his fingers and hands would grow so numb that it took their mutual effort of warm breaths and Ed's adept rubbing for Alfons to regain any sort of circulation to his limbs.

It was mid-February, and the coldest it had been all season, when their fire crackled and died for the last time. They had no money for firewood, and it was only by the generosity of their landlady that they were not already starving. They had broken and burned the chairs and desk throughout December, and Ed's wooden bed frame—Alfons's, lamentably, was made of iron—had kept them warm for all of January and the first part of February. Ed was the first to notice the lack of even a miniscule amount of heat coming from one end of the room. Alfons was sleeping soundly beside him, as he had been doing every night for the past six weeks. Ed's mattress still remained in the other tiny bedroom, but sharing the bed with another living, breathing human being had stemmed from the intrinsic desire to stay warm and survive.

Ed rolled reluctantly from the somewhat warm bed, finding his coat on the floor and wrapping it about him, his socked feet shuffling across the ice-cold wood floor. He managed to find their stack of notes and books easily, not once stumbling. It would be almost impossible, he mused, as they had no furniture left to trip on. It was half-way through his rummaging that a bleary-eyed and eerily pale Alfons came to sit beside the older blond. With a yawn and a slight stretch of his arms, Alfons questioned Ed.

"The fire went out, I'm trying to find some books to burn," he said prophetically. There was a hint of pain in Edward's voice, and nostalgia. He somberly remembered, years ago, coming across a whole branch of a library destroyed by fire, and the despair and anger he had felt then.

"We can't burn our books," Alfons protested, his voice suddenly void of any sleepiness.

"We can't freeze, either," Ed shot back tersely, his good hand making contact with a thick book. "I've gotten everything I need from this one, and it wasn't much use anyway." Alfons caught a pained half-smile, and he didn't argue as the older boy stood, carrying several large books back to the bedroom. Alfons followed, not wanting to be left alone in the dark, cold, and empty room.

He found Ed perched in front of the small fire place, tearing pages from the thick volumes. There were still some live ashes in the grate, and Alfons watched their glow paint fiery images on Edward's stoic face. If Alfons would have believed in such a thing as Hell, he imagined it would not be a lake of fire, but rather like this—the eternal, empty cold. There were flames now, oranges and yellows as paper curled and burned and turned as black and desolate as the night sky.

"Are you alright..?" Ed's soft but concerned voice snapped Alfons out of his thoughts. The older boy was standing again—standing so close—peering into the taller boy's eyes. Ed moved a little closer and placed his good hand on Alfons's shoulder. "God, you're cold," Ed exclaimed mildly, gripping Alfons's thin shoulder through his shirt. "Come on, get closer to the fire…let's get you warmed up," Ed murmured softly as he led the taller boy nearer to the grate. Alfons responded to Ed's touch as someone blind, heeding the older boy's every direction.

"Let's go back to bed," Alfons broke his silence after a few minutes of staring into the depths of the now-waning flames. He didn't wait for Ed, but crossed the small distance and retreated beneath the few layers of covers with a squeak of bed springs. He only heard Ed slide in next to him, not bothering to turn over and look at the older blond, lest the cast of his eyes be misconstrued for something else—something that was present and growing, but not yet possessing true form.

The next night they burned even more of their beloved texts, this time an unspoken agreement between them, so that Alfons said nothing and Ed pretended that he felt no regret every time he tore page from binding.

Alfons shivered and knew that Ed's breathing was too frequent for him to be asleep.

"Are you cold?" Ed asked as he scooted closer. Alfons was soon shivering in earnest, and worry, more than anything else, prompted Ed to half-sit up and vigorously rub Alfons's arms and side. Ed was too self-conscious to take off his prosthetics very often, and Alfons had grown accustomed to the feel of something alien shaped as a hand, as an arm, come into contact with his own. Alfons found himself warming immensely and Ed's ministrations steadily declined until they were barely more than caresses. Alfons shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the cold. As if Ed had also realized that, he stopped, his good hand resting on the pillow near Alfons's head, but his prosthetic hand on the bony part of Alfons's hip—an alarmingly intimate gesture, the younger boy thought suddenly.

With the ghost of a touch that Alfons felt on his hip, something that had been welled-up inside of him screamed to be let out. He could barely make out Ed's profile in the dark, but he somehow managed to roll over toward the older blond in one smooth series of movements and close the distance of mere centimeters between them. Ed tensed slightly when he felt soft lips meet his own, but then Alfons's hands were rubbing Ed—not for warmth, as Ed had been doing only a few moments ago for Alfons—but with incoherent need, and Ed found himself nearly collapsing on top of the younger boy.

They wore nearly all of their clothes to bed because of the cold, and so it seemed like hours had passed before each article was discarded among the sheets, both boys not caring to toss the clothes to the floor. Then Alfons's ice-cold feet made contact with Ed's bare legs and the older boy half-yelped between kisses. Alfons almost laughed, but instead chose to stifle it and work his way down Edward's neck. Ed was writhing, a hot flush all over his body, and he wondered why they hadn't thought of getting warm like this before now. Bare flesh on bare flesh let them share body heat, and the tiny bit of heat from the dying fire was only a spark compared to this. What was cold when two bodies were as close as this, hands and lips touching, stroking, kissing..?

Alfons was now over Edward, his hands on the older boy's hips, his lips making silent supplication to a non-existent God across Ed's collar bone. Then Alfons brought his thin body flush against Ed's, their legs intertwined and hips meeting, Ed let out a disjointed cry and felt a hitch in Alfons's breathing where the younger boy's mouth had traveled to the junction of neck and shoulder. Time had stopped; they both had stopped. Alfons exhaled and moved his hips again, his mind too ravaged with need to even be formulating hypotheses of the end results this late in the act. Ed responded with a half-suppressed moan and threw his head back on the sweat-streaked pillow. He hadn't sweat in bed since the high days of July, when the hot air filled the tiny flat and made untroubled sleep nearly impossible. But then he hadn't known _this _was possible, not like this, not to feel _this_ amazing.

Ed shifted his body slightly and found even more breath-taking contact with the boy on top of him. He didn't understand how Alfons could keep so silent, so seemingly unaffected as he himself lay wanton beneath the younger boy. They moved together now, the almost-unbearable feeling of skin sliding on skin soliciting sharp intakes of breath and delicious moans. At last, when Edward could no longer stand it, he snaked his good hand between their hips. That was when Alfons finally cried out, and with one final shifting thrust, found release. Ed came not moments later, his chest heaving as he exhaled one last moan. Alfons fell to the mattress somewhere near Ed, trying to catch his breath.

After only a few minutes of panting, they found the cold slowly creeping back over them, their bodies uncomfortably covered in their own release. Alfons found his shirt near the edge of the bed and attempted to wipe himself off. Ed followed suit with his own shirt, each boy performing his own silent liturgy. Ed pulled his underwear and pants back on, tossing the soiled shirt to the floor. Alfons was slower, taking his time with his act, as if reticent, but quite pleased. He pulled on the rest of his clothes, taking his shirt, as well as picking up Ed's from the wood floor, and making his way to the fireplace. Ed sat up in bed, perplexed. Alfons tossed both shirts into the grate and watched as they slowly caught fire. Ed threw off the covers in protest and made his way—barefoot on the cold floor—to Alfons, indignantly.

"Why the hell did you burn our shirts!" He asked fiercely.

"Look, we have others," which was only a half-lie, "and how were we going to explain them to the landlady when we asked her to clean them, hunh..?" Alfons replied rationally. Ed felt his face redden, and it had nothing to do with fire.

"Let's go back to bed," he replied flatly, almost as if defeated.

The next day Ed was all shouts and smiles when he received a letter—and money—from his father. Alfons rejoiced with him, and the first thing they did was go out and buy a copy of each of the books they had burned, along with some firewood and food. They didn't bother buying a new bed frame for Ed; and so the other bedroom remained empty—save for the unused mattress.


End file.
